


This Wasn't Supposed To Be Her Life

by charlotteof_denmark



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Character Death, Crying, Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Murder, Sleeping Together, harpsichord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteof_denmark/pseuds/charlotteof_denmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last hours of Abigail Hobbs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Wasn't Supposed To Be Her Life

**  
  
  
  
**

After all of it, Hannibal found Abigail crying in the bedroom in the cellar. He starred in the crack of the door for a long time, not wanting to frighten her. When she calmed down, he knocked twice of the door. She was sitting on her bed, her back to him, and she turned around.

‘Come in,’ she said.

Hannibal opened the door, seeing her fully.

The bedroom he made her about a year ago was big with no windows. The walls were a dusty blue, almost gray, reflecting her personality. The bed was double with a dark blue quilt and four pillows. She had some drawers to put her belongings in, her clothes, her books, food for when Hannibal didn’t have time to cook for her. Next to her bed she had a white nightstand where a lamp stood for reading. In one of the corners, they was a big armchair in which she often read. There was also a snow globe that Hannibal permitted her to steal from her old house in Minnesota. It was a souvenir her mother bought in Cuba a few summers before. She turned it upside down once a day to see the snow twirl around the tiny palm trees and wished she was walking there with her parents. Abigail wished for her old life every day. She tried so very hard not to feel sorry for herself but she did. Every day was filled with nostalgia and tragedy. Every day was just a step closer to the gas chamber. To death. That was all life was to Abigail. Hannibal gave her anti-depressants daily, but they most definitely didn’t help. Abigail felt like she was dead. She was.

For everyone around her.

Will, Jack, Alana, Freddie. To them she was dead.

Hannibal approached her slowly and sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

‘Is there anything wrong, Abigail?’ he said, putting a hand on her back.

She sniffled and wiped a tear out of her eye. ‘Is there anything not wrong?’ she asked.

He didn’t respond to that.

‘You cut my ear off... Apparently you shoved it down Will’s throat...’ she swallowed. ‘Do you know what Will means to me?’

‘And what do you think he meant to me? What I’m forced to do tomorrow is horrendous and inevitable.’

Abigail looked up at him. ‘And me? What about me? My life was never supposed to be like this. I never should have met you. You started this. All of this. You called that morning. That morning ruined my life,’ she told him, holding back her cries. An uncomfortable weight grew inside her chest. She didn’t want to cry.

Hannibal stroked her back as he hushed her.

‘Don’t lie to me. Are you going to kill me tomorrow night? No mixed signals. Please.’

She moved a bit farther away from him to see his face better.

His hand went to the place she hated, the place he cherished. His thumb grazed upon the extremely visible scar on which a knife was used twice. Once by her father, once by him, when he faked her death. Abigail flinched every time his hand went to her neck. Trauma, trauma, trauma. She felt like she’d caught a terminal illness since the day she ‘died’. There had not been a moment of joy in her heart since her captivity. It was never going to leave, no matter what happened.

‘Right here, Abigail. It won’t last long.’

He knew she wanted to die. She pushed his hand away. ‘Please not in front of Will!’ she pleaded.

As she started crying again, he took a deep breath.

She brought her hands to her face, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Abigail asked him a few days ago if he could kill her. He refused, saying he needed her to do some work for him.

‘Is there anything I may do to... Assist you?’

He could give her anything. Whenever she asked for material things, he gave them to her.

She lifted her head, and said through muffled cries, ‘Hold me.’

It was all she wanted.

He took her hand and they walked to the white armchair. He sat down, gesturing her to come to him. Abigail sat on his lap and lay her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her, protecting her. He didn’t know it, but the only thing Abigail Hobbs needed to be protected was from him. Yet, she couldn’t bare to hate him. She figured it was a psychological response to being in captivity. She wanted someone to hold her, to touch her. The only person who could feed those needs was a cannibalistic serial killer, someone she wasn’t even sure was human, someone who had torn her bit by bit.

She had the capacity to love.

But Also to be excited at the sight of blood and gore.

There wasn’t a name for what she was, Hannibal figured.

Abigail had calmed herself down. The fire in her chest was watered down by hands of steel, the hands covering her body right now.

‘You know I want to die, do you?’

With his left hand, he caressed her skinny thigh, feeling it frail under her jeans. ‘Your life was a melancholy, Abigail. There’s a time to live and a time to die. Why were you crying?’

‘Because I’m not like you. I don’t want to kill Alana or die in front of Will,’ she whispered next to his ear.

He smiled sadly. ‘I don’t want to kill Alana either. You will do this just in case. With much hope, she will survive. I care deeply for her,’ he said quietly.

‘And Will?’

‘Will betrayed me. I forgive him. I forgive mostly everyone,’ he explained.

They sat there for a long time. Abigail breathed faintly on Hannibal’s neck. It reminded him of the cold breaths of a blonde little girl he once took care of, chained and ill, then slaughtered and eaten like a lamb for easter. It was a sacrifice. Was Abigail a sacrifice? She was giving herself. It made him so very proud of her for some reason. He hoped she would find rest in her death.

At one point, Abigail wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing her closer to him, chest to chest. ‘Not in front of Will, Hannibal,’ she cried.

Their hearts were beating against each other. Their chests heaved. Her hand snaked down to his heart to feel it. The last person she would touch before dying in a bath of her own blood. Her hand palmed his chest.

Abigail would miss this. The heat of another person.

‘Tell me about the bad dreams,’ he said in a husky voice.

She sniffled once.

‘Can we lie down first?’ she asked, lifting herself from him.

Thirty seconds later, they lay on the bed on opposite sides. Abigail on her stomach, Hannibal on his side. She took his wrist and placed it on the small of her back underneath her shirt. She needed skin to skin contact. So his hand stayed there.

‘They left me. The nightmares, I mean.’ she was answering his question.

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. They sort of... Drifted off. I miss them sometimes,’ she admitted.

There was a silence. The sound of his fingertips running along her spine. He had tried his best to feed her well while she stayed here. She refused most meat and ate on rare occasions. When he asked her to weigh herself, she’d lost ten pounds since their first encounter. He couldn’t help her.

‘I’m fucked up aren’t I?’ she asked, seemingly worried.

‘Language,’ he warned her.

She groaned. ‘But I am?’ she insisted. ‘What made me like this?’

‘Nothing at all,’ he assured her, drawing circles on her back. ‘Nothing made you happen. You happened.’

‘But my dad--’

‘Nothing can reduce you to a set of influence. You are not your father’s daughter. Not anymore. Not ever.’

She shivered as his hand went higher. He yearned for a reaction that wasn’t negative.

‘I like killing. I wanted to kill Nick Boyle. I think about killing him at night...’

‘Of course you do. It was a very important moment in your life. Taking someone’s life for the first time is not to be taken lightly. There is a first time for everything,’ he agreed.

She turned around on her back to see what would happen. His hand remained under her shirt, but lay on her stomach. Her eyes shied from his and stared up at the ceiling.

His hand wandered to her hips, back up to her ribs, carefully and slowly. She sucked in a sharp breath.

Her last hours.

‘Hannibal, what would you do in your last hours?’ she asked. Her tone was very regular, no sign of weeping.

His hand stopped moving and paused over her navel. ‘If I knew my death was coming... I would take my mind off it. I would do something distracting. Reading maybe. Or composing a joyful valse.’

She sat up, propping herself on her palms. ‘I hear you playing every once in a while. Do you know that I can hear you?’ she revealed. ‘I recognize some of the things you play, like Bach.’

He pulled his hand away and lay on his back.

Abigail remained sitting.

He crossed his arms over his own stomach. She loved seeing him like this. Without his usual three-piece suit with ties she hated. The way he lay down like an ordinary person. In moments like these, she saw him as a human instead of a monster. She looked at him in wonder, but mostly in interest.

He once told her he knew what monsters were. Hannibal Lecter knew himself more than anyone else.

The man who held her in his arms after she admitted to helping her father was the same man who was going to kill her tomorrow evening.

Hannibal sat up and he looked like he was going to leave. ‘I want you to come to me when I ask you to. Don’t resist me. I know you aren’t that weak. I want Will to see what he did.’

‘What he did...?’

He cupped the side of her head, the side without the ear. ‘Yes. What he did when he brought you to your father’s cabin. He let you run away.’

It wasn’t Will’s fault. She wanted to slap Hannibal for saying that.

He stood up. ‘It’s getting late Abigail. Sleep. I’ll make you something for breakfast tomorrow--berries perhaps?’ he asked.

‘I don’t really want to think about food right now... Good night.’ her voice was shaky and ill-like.

The last time she would go to bed.

Hannibal left her alone. It would have been frightening for anyone else to be left in a dark basement filled with strange things. Part of the basement was for food and wine storing. The other was for murdering and preparing the meat. And the other belonged to Abigail, where she slept, ate and bathed. The first month of her ‘death’ was normal. She could go up to Hannibal’s actual house whenever she felt like it, but as Jack became more and more suspicious, and as Alana became a more frequent visitor, she was forced to stay down. The sunlight had not touched her skin for so long. She yearned for the warmth of the sun against the fabric of her shirt, burning her back.

Abigail took a shower, brushed her teeth, slipped into satin pajamas and untangled her wet hair. She shut the big light and turned on the one on her nightstand. Pulling the covers over herself, she heard something upstairs.

It was the harpsichord.

The song was festive, a bit too upbeat for the evening. She heard this one often. He played it when there was no one else home.

Later on, Abigail tossed and turned in her bed. She was cold and felt a mixture of angst, stress, rage and loneliness. Also, she was helpless. She couldn’t believe anything that was happening. She felt like an inmate on the death row except she’d done nothing wrong. The sheets of the bed smelled too clean, her pajamas were too soft. Everything was so perfect that she wanted to die painlessly, right now. Abigail called for death in her mind. She prayed for God to kill her. Why did he kill so many people, but not her?

After praying, she counted things in her head.

What would she miss from this life?

Nothing was her first thought.

Without wanting it, things came up. Words. Phrases.

Would she miss being under the protection of the only man who knew all of her secrets? Would she miss knowing that his strong arms were always there to keep her safe? Would she miss him talking to her? Would she miss the sound of an ancient instrument resonating into the depths of the dungeon where she was held captive? Would she miss his trust? His understanding? Rough hands pressing against her cheeks to check for a fever? Would she miss never being pitied for the first time in her life?

Yes.

In life, there was so much to let go, but also so much to lose.

So instead, she prayed God to forgive her for her acts. She prayed for Alana not to die.

Abigail felt so alone. She held back her tears. She felt like such a child for crying so much. She swallowed cries, biting her arm to take the pain elsewhere. Abigail wanted her last night to be with Hannibal holding her. Knowing he locked the cellar, she went out of her room just to walk around a bit. He locked the door. It was like that. He never forgot to do it. She couldn’t get out. It made her feel even more horrible. There was so much regret within her.

Abigail thought of killing herself when seeing an electric saw. But no.

She wanted to say something to Will.

_Do not stand at my grave and forever cry. I am not there. I did not die._

Maybe when they would both die they would go to a place where nightmares did not exist, where veins did not bleed, where there was no one to play with their heads.

At one point, Abigail climbed the ladder up to where the hidden trap was. She pushed and she almost screamed when it opened. It really opened. There was no lock.

The way to Hannibal’s room was simple but long. Through the dining room, the kitchen, a long series of staircases, then there was a door slightly open. Everything was completely pitch-black. She put her hands in front of herself, not to bump into anything.

Hands went behind her, on her shoulders, making her jump. She turned around, seeing her captor in front of her. He was shirtless, only wearing pajama pants.

‘I thought you would lock--’

He took her hand. ‘I knew you were going to come here. Everything is alright,’ he assured her.

They climbed into the bed, covering themselves only with white sheets. She smiled a bit, thinking about the fact that Alana sometimes slept where she slept. But then she frowned. Hannibal knew why. He read her like the script of a play.

Hannibal lay down, pulling the thin-limbed girl into his arms, kissed her all over, tucking her head under his chin. She flung one of her arms on his side, the other on his chest. She inhaled him, the whole of him, the scent of expensive soap and saltiness filling her. She could even smell a hint of copper, like the scent of a wound. Hannibal smelled her floral hair, peony. Their bodies aligned in a straight line. They fit to each other.

‘Mixed feelings, Abigail?’ he murmured, his voice like a cataclysm in the darkness.

She pushed herself closer, her hips awkwardly connecting to his. ‘I feel like I took everything I loved, put it on a shelf and forgot about it. I removed it from the shelf and now I see.’

He caressed her back. ‘See what?’

‘What I won’t have when I’m dead.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You, for the most part.’

His heart tightened when she said that. Abigail did not know about the feelings he had. It was going to be harder to end her life.

‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’ she shrilled.

‘Of course.’

Abigail cried herself to sleep. She went hysteric, kept telling Hannibal that this wasn’t supposed to be her life, how angry she was, how she had ambitions, or rather used to. After a while, Hannibal turned her over on her stomach like before when she was on her own bed. Holding her down and rubbing her back excessively. Just once she asked him why. Why was he doing all of this.

‘Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point,’ he said.  _The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing._

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she yelled. She wanted to get up but Hannibal’s massage was distracting.

Several minutes later, he gave her back one more stroke. She was calm. Asleep. Limp. She would sleep well.

Hannibal stayed up for a long time, observing her like a nymph in the woods. His eyes got used to the darkness.

‘My little Mischa,’ he said to her, petting her hair.

M is for Mischa. He told that to his sister.

 **  
**When he sliced her neck, he threw her on the ground like the corpse of an animal. He lied. He hadn’t been careful. It was so much easier to walk away than to yearn on the past.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! (also, sorry)


End file.
